There's such a sad widower here with four little boys, all in black—all the family in black—as though they were flies that had dropped into milk. There was a tiny girl, too, but she was not fished out again soon enough, and she died. They are silly, so stupid: that's what makes me sad to see them. Like a Dostoevsky 6th floor family to whom this has happened. The man can't quite make up his mind whether his little boys can walk or if they must be carried, so he does half and half, and sometimes during meals he feels one of them and dashes up, his eyes rolling,—dashes out of the salle à manger to get a coat or a black shawl….

I read in my Daily Mail to-day that the double daffodils are out in English gardens and red wall-flowers. I have been to Gamel's also to-day and asked her to put in reserve for me 1 lb. of butter. That makes me feel presque là. The tulips are coming out here, but I shan't dare to bring them because of the journey.

Oh God! this pathetic widower! One of the little boys has just begun to make a sort of weak sick bird-piping and to jump up and down—and he is radiant. He is sure they are well already.

To-morrow I shall hear from Cook's, I hope, and then I'll feel more settled. You know, I am already ‘on the wing’ and have been making up my marvellous accounts—you know, pages and pages where everything is reduced and then turned back again—and the simplest sum seems to be thousands.